Back to Back

Our mattress is done for. We used to love it, and even on the best of vacations, we would talk all the way home of how much we looked forward to sleeping in our own bed.


I have a long history of back problems, dating back to my twenties. (Yes, I can remember back that far, thank you very much.) My brother has the same problem with the same disk, so we blame our parents. That’s fair, isn’t it? My kids blame me for everything they suffer from, so why should the buck stop here? I ain’t no Harry Truman, you know…

Anyhoo, this summer my back issues seemed to escalate, and by the fourth of July had really flared up (pun intended.) I was walking like the 2000-year old man: hunched over and grimacing in pain.

My husband, the Center of the Universe (CoTU) suggested I try sleeping in the guest room. I gracefully declined, unwilling to believe I could blame my troubles on the mattress I had so loved and relied on for so long.

The problems with my back continued.

CoTU again suggested I give the guest room a try. After all, our guests were gone, and though that mattress is significantly older than the one we currently share, he posited that I had nothing to lose. I again declined, this time without a trace of grace, and got down on the floor to resume the physical therapy exercises that usually grant me relief. But like the Cardinals’ bullpen, there was not nearly enough relief to be had.

Within a few days I gave in to his urging, and gave the guest bedroom a try.

That room is now known as Lourdes.

The very first morning I woke up and walked upright for the first time in weeks! I slept better, felt better and moved a whole lot easier. Knowing CoTU as you do, you know how pleased he was to have been proven right.

Except for one thing. Now he can’t lure me back to the bed that causes me so much pain and discomfort.

He tried enticing me back with tales of his ‘invisible friend’. “She’s really special. She’s really hot,” he said.

“She’s really imaginary,” I replied.

Both beds are available for conjugal visits, but I insisted that he boot out his invisible friend before I agreed to go back. No more references to her, her specialness, or her hotness. “She doesn’t take care of you like I do,” I helpfully pointed out. “I haven’t noticed her helping with feeding you, for instance.”

“True,” he agreed. “But she doesn’t have to.”

Ouch! “You’re going to die,” I deadpanned.

“In your arms?” he asked.

“No, I’ll be the one in handcuffs.”

We’re going shopping for a new mattress. Today.

Losing My Flock

So the nest is empty once again. The birds have flown (literally) and I’m searching every little nook and cranny for a feather. When I find one, it just brings me down.


Three-year old Zachary left his train whistle. His momma left a fleece jacket. My son and the daffodil (De Facto Daughter-In-Law, if you’re new here) left behind a list they will need with them. It all makes me miss them more. So I’m packing stuff to mail off, and drying my tears as I go.

Just a day ago the house was full of life and extra beds and loads of wet towels. Sink full of dishes, and food everywhere, and noise and music and talk, talk, talk. The signs of life that I miss so much now.

CoTU and I just can’t muster up that level of activity alone. I will give him credit for dirtying almost as many dishes as we did with all the houseguests, and the extended family that we had here to see them. He does what he can to add to the clutter, and I certainly appreciate it. (Sarcasm is just another service we offer here at the House of Casa de Rubin Place.) He is sympathetic, and is trying to cheer me up by reminding me how soon we’ll see them all again. Yeah, but why do they have to live so far away?

With the kids here, my in-laws came over; my step-daughter came by, my brother and sister-in-law, sister-in-law and brother-in-law, four calling birds, three French hens, two turtle doves and the proverbial partridge in a pear tree. There was activity, conversation and a constant flow of food. And the resulting dishes. And we looked upon it, and yea—it was all good.

Now I see emptiness and stack upon stack of folded sheets and towels. Signs of a family departed.

On the bright side, however, I’m only washing dishes for two. This means that my semi-chapped hands may heal up.

On the sad side, however, the floor puzzles are put away and the children’s books have been returned to the library. Z and I were doing an “I Spy” puzzle on the kitchen floor Sunday, when everyone else was out. It was for ages 5 and up, and the Z-man is 3. I figured we could do it together.

Problem one: the puzzle, it turns out, is shaped like a gingerbread man. Aren’t there federal laws about puzzles being square or rectangular? There should be. Problem two: the pieces are repetitive and somewhat warped.

Me: “This is hard work, isn’t it?”

Zachary: “This is hod wuck.”

Me: “Should we work on his head first?”

Zachary: “Gwamma, this piece has a buy-see-co on it. Let’s look foe the west of the buy-see-co.”

Hmmm… Pretty good thinking for a little dude. Maybe if I were five…